


your love is a garden tattooed on my heart

by 8daysuntiltheapocalypseiguess



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8daysuntiltheapocalypseiguess/pseuds/8daysuntiltheapocalypseiguess
Summary: Hey, did someone say flower shop/tattoo shop au?A. Z. Fell & Co Tattoo Shop and Serpente nel Giardino Nursery have stood side-by-side for decades. Aziraphale and Crowley have been there since the beginning, and have grown fond of the community that’s sprouted up around them in the last twenty years. When their quiet lives are threatened by warring forces of economic greed, they have to find a way to keep their shops standing and prevent a domino effect that could leave the three streets that make up Tadfield leveled.





	your love is a garden tattooed on my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Yes that is the title don’t @ me. I do what I want.
> 
> Is this a TV verse fic or a Book verse fic? The answer is yes. I don't promise quality but I do promise FUN! (At least I hope you have fun. I'm having fun writing this ridiculous thing.)
> 
> P.S. it was maggie anthonycrowley that’s who said it

“Tadfield is a lovely little quarter. Up-and-coming. They call it the Soho of Oxford,” said Mister Adams of Apple Tree Realty, LLC, who would normally insist on using first names, but had taken his wife’s name in their wedding last month and so was using it as often as possible. Mister Adams had informed Aziraphale of this on the street a few minutes earlier, while they were shaking hands. Aziraphale found it rather touching. It was nearly the twenty-first century, he thought, and about damn time.

“How tall are the ceilings?” asked Aziraphale, glancing up at them worriedly. “Only, I need to be sure the bookshelves will fit.”

“Oh, they’re a good three meters,” said Mister Adams. “A wonderful place to set up shop. Like I said, it’s up and coming. You really ought to buy while it’s cheap.”

“It might need a little sprucing up before it’s up to code,” said Aziraphale, peering at the slight cast of dust over the windows.

Mister Adams gave him a slightly puzzled look. “I didn’t realize there were any particular health codes for bookshops.”

“Oh, it won’t be a bookshop, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “It’s going to be a _tattoo_ shop.”

“Oh,” said Mister Adams. He looked Aziraphale up and down. “Have you got a catalogue? Only, my wife’s always wanted a flaming sword down her spine.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Indeed.”

“It’s on its way to being really something. The Soho of Oxford, they say,” said Eve of Apple Tree Realty, LLC, touching her wedding ring absently with her thumb for the third time since she shook Crowley’s hand. At first Crowley thought it had been knocked askew by her warm two-handed handshake, but now he thought it was more likely she just wasn’t used to it, yet. This thought was bolstered by the delighted little smile that crossed her face every time her thumb made contact with the band.

“How much do you think it would cost to knock out the ceiling and put in all glass?” asked Crowley shrewdly, following its edges with narrowed eyes.

Eve glanced up, too. “Well, there’s a flat up above—part of the listing,” she added, slightly chiding, “—so it’s not really feasible, but I suppose you could do the walls. Though not the connecting wall, of course.”

“Should make sure, before I commit. I’ll be needing the light.”

“The only problem I can see is the possibility that one of those walls is load-bearing. And even then, you could just add pillars.” She laid a hand on her gently rounded stomach and smiled, again. “The light will be nice, for the children.”

Crowley looked at her blankly. “What children?”

She faltered. “Didn’t you say this was going to be a nursery?”

“Oh,” said Crowley, “yeah. Not a _nursery-_ nursery. A _plant_ nursery.”

“Oh,” said Eve. “Well. Plants are good practice, I suppose.”

Crowley didn’t really know what to say to that.

Eve didn’t seem bothered by the pause. “There’s another man’s just bought the connecting rooms. He plans to open a tattoo shop,” she added, glancing at the snake coiled just beneath Crowley’s ear in neat black lines. “His catalogue is incredible. He’s going to do a piece for me after the baby comes.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, already focused on his plans for the floor layout, and spared a moment to hope he was the decent sort. Crowley liked people, on the whole, but you never knew what you were getting, with neighbors.

It took several months, but with a bit of extra support, three of the nursery walls were fitted with all glass to let the natural light in. As Crowley began to set up shop, he could hear sounds through the connecting wall of somebody doing the same. He saw large bookshelves being carted into the next shop over—which seemed odd for a tattoo parlour—but he never caught sight of the owner. He did, however, see a well-dressed man in old-fashioned clothes coming and going a few times. He assumed that was the health code inspector. He had a bright blond mop of curly hair that never failed to catch Crowley’s eye.

Crowley had got all his stock in, and was now mostly working on arranging everything in the most aesthetically appealing way possible, when Eve of Apple Tree Realty, LLC, walked in his door with a baby in one arm.

She bought a glossy-leaved little apple tree in a pot. “Oh, isn’t it lovely,” she cooed at it, as the baby grabbed for a leaf and nearly gave Crowley a heart attack, before Eve made a practiced little turn and brought the baby’s hand out of reach. She turned her smile on Crowley. “It’ll be fitting for out front of the office. I’ll have my husband pick it up later. Oh!” Her smile widened. “I got that tattoo I told you about, from next door. The last appointment was an intense one, so he wanted to check how it was healing. It’s why I was in the area. D’you want to see?”

Crowley, curious despite himself, nodded.

She adjusted the baby in her arm, then turned around and lifted her shirt up to about halfway between her shoulder blades with one hand. It slowly rose out of the way to reveal a beautifully stylized arming sword, the blade outlined in silver and wreathed in blue-white flames. They were luminous and dynamic; it almost looked as though they were moving.

Crowley didn’t believe in love at first sight, but that was definitely _something_.

Over the door to the tattoo parlour was a hanging sign with old-fashioned lettering that read A. Z. Fell & Co. In the front window hung a tartan sign that said Tattoo Parlour in the same script. Crowley surveyed both for a moment, and then went in.

An ethereal little antique bell tinkled from above as Crowley pushed open the door. It led into a bright little waiting room, with an open door leading into the shop proper. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the health code inspector, paused in cleaning a set of instruments at the sound of the bell. “Oh, hello!” The inspector peered a little closer. “You’re from the flower shop next door, aren’t you? Mister Crowley, I believe Eve said. Your shopfront is _lovely_.”

Suddenly, he was standing directly in front of Crowley. Clearly not the health inspector. Crowley looked around at the stacks and stacks of books lining the shelves on every wall, some creating walls of their own. It was definitely because of the oddness of the décor, and not an excuse to look somewhere else. “Are you sure you wanted to open a tattoo shop and not a bookshop?”

“Well,” said the man, with a self-deprecating little wiggle, “I did try to get into the bookselling business, but I just couldn’t bear to part with any of them.”

“Well, I can see why you switched,” said Crowley. “You’re very good.”

The man was still smiling, but his eyes were confused. “Why do you say that?”

“Eve Adams came in to buy a tree. Showed me her tattoo.”

The man beamed. “I am quite proud of that one, yes. Some of my best work, if I may say so. And my first paid piece in this location, as well.”

“As opposed to unpaid,” Crowley said sardonically.

“Well, yes,” said the man. “I’ve done a couple _gratis_ , as they say.”

“You _what?_ ” Crowley knew he was staring, but he considered it somewhat warranted. “How do you expect to make any _money,_ giving away free tattoos?”

“I cover up self-harm scars and medical transition scars for free,” the man said, somewhat defensively.

Crowley’s mouth fell open, a little, quite without his permission.

“You—really?”

“Yes,” said the man testily. “Do you take issue with that?”

“No, it’s… good,” said Crowley, feeling strangely winded. It was probably the surprise. ‘Do you take issue?’ Who said things like that in nineteen ninety-nine. “Can I, um—can I see your catalogue?”

The man smiled at him. “Of course, my dear.” He went to his table and brought over a three-ring binder. It was stuffed full of drawings and photographs tucked into slipcovers, some of them spilling out the sides. Before he handed it over, he looked at Crowley, and touched his own face in the same spot where Crowley’s snake tattoo sat. “I quite like that one,” he said.

“Th-thanks,” said Crowley. He took the book and opened it up. And couldn’t help but stare.

It he’d thought that was going to help, it didn’t. He flipped through the pages for minutes, standing there in the tattoo shop, the owner moving away to finish sorting his tools. He came back and took Crowley by the elbow to guide him through a short gap between two bookshelves. It led to a little nook. He pushed Crowley gently down into the hideously comfortable tartan armchair in the corner.

Crowley looked up and around at the space. The bookshelves crowded in on all sides, but somehow it felt comforting rather than menacing. “What’s this for?”

The man leaned back against a wooden stool pushed against one of the shelves. “Sometimes my clients need to take a little break. And some of them get… emotional. It can be a very cathartic process, tattooing, but it’s… intense. I don’t want them driving away from here if they’re not in a fit state.” He rested a hand on the bookshelf. “I’ve always found reading to be very calming. Or even just sitting, surrounded by books.” He nodded at the binder in Crowley’s hands. “You don’t need to pick something,” he said softly. “You can just look.”

His gaze on Crowley was as soft as his voice. Crowley couldn’t seem to look away. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The man smiled at him. “Aziraphale.”

Crowley couldn’t help but gape. “ _Really?”_

Aziraphale waved him off. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before.”

The sudden sound of heavy rain filled the bookshop. It was only about twenty steps from Aziraphale’s door to his, but Crowley didn’t particularly cherish the idea of walking those twenty steps in a downpour. For one thing, it would ruin his hair. He looked like a drowned cat when it was wet. Crowley would readily admit to being vain about his hair.

Aziraphale was smiling at him indulgently. Crowley felt a little cross about that. As though he needed to be indulged. “You can stay for a while, if you like,” Aziraphale said. It was hard to stay cross after that.

“For a _little_ while,” said Crowley resolutely.

“For a little while,” Aziraphale agreed.

When the rain abated a bit, Aziraphale offered to walk Crowley back to his own shop. Crowley wanted to protest, but Aziraphale went on and on about how he’d wanted to go in, about how beautiful it looked from the outside, with all those flowering plants pushing up against the windows and spilling out the front door. It was uncomfortably close to begging, to the point where saying yes would actually protect Crowley’s dignity more than saying no.

As they approached, Aziraphale looked up at the words _Serpente nel Giardino_ painted in slithery letters above the door of the nursery. “’Snake in the Garden,’” he asked, raising one blond eyebrow.

Crowley shrugged. “I like snakes.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, touching the snake by Crowley’s ear very gently the pad of his thumb.

For a moment, Crowley couldn’t think of anything at all.

He supposed tattooists had to be tactile people.

When they got inside, Aziraphale started gushing praise all over Crowley’s plants like blood from a particularly embarrassing wound, which quite annoyed Crowley, who believed in the power of intimidation. He resolved to be extra severe with them for the next few days just to make up for it.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, cupping a tulip in his hand. “I think I’ll come here every time I’m looking for inspiration.”

Crowley thought that might be the best compliment anyone had ever given him.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](https://8daysuntiltheapocalypseiguess.tumblr.com/), if you're into that sort of thing. I'm pretty new on there, and I find it kind of like middle school in that only like 1 person gets my jokes (it's me, I'm the person) and I'm not entirely sure how to make friends. But I want to! So come talk to me if you want :)


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